Immune
by Harmonic Friction
Summary: Syndrome rants, raves, and is ultimately candid. He abhors the idea of love, he doesn't want to be weak, and he wants Mirage to stop worrying.


**an: **I knew this was coming. I'll blame it on **a **the fact that I too am I geek _and _a cynic and **b **because I listen to songs with lyrics like _/whoa my baby/ how beautiful you are/ whoa my darling/ completely torn apart/ _and _/I just love the way you're losing your life/ _(HIM; "Gone with the Sin").

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**Summary: **Syndrome rants and raves.

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**Immune.**

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**PEOPLE WHO NEED PEOPLE **_are the suckiest people in the world. _Ha, forgive the word play on previously lovable and optimistic song lyrics, but this is most definitely the way I feel. Weakness is a choice. You can choose to live life for yourself, fulfilling goals and being your own master, _or _you can answer to other (stupider) people and even _perhaps _develop something called _friendship _with them, therefore making you **w-e-a-k. **

The irony isn't lost on me—I'm sharper than that, _way _sharper. I _do _think it's amusing that I chose to go against my former hero's ideals, way of life, etc., and yet _here I am, _preaching the 'I work alone' word. Alas, _my _thoughts run deeper than simply attempting to push away a desperate fan. I don't buy into _family, alliance, _or more namely **_love. _** These are things that make a being _weak, _weakness is not something I can afford, what after all of these years proving my existence.

You know, part of me would really _like _to reveal my secret identity, just to slam who I have become into the faces of all of those skeptics and populars in my past, the ones who never thought I would amount to anything. The ones who thought I was just a suffering nerd. _Yeah, _sometimes I _really _want to just pull off the **S **and reveal who I used to be. _But that's the point, isn't it? _That is who I **used to be**. And if I _did _reveal my identity, then those who fear me might not feel so obligated to follow me anymore. _Not that I care. _

You know, way back when, I always imagined myself immensely powerful. I figured I would have to have _some _sort of repayment for my dire and stereotypically unsatisfying childhood. I always imagined upstaging the world, and now _here I am_. And yet… there's something I never _thought _I would have—never would have even _fathomed, _even though I collected greatly shameful supergirl action figures and ogled over superzines.

And that something _is, _to be blunt, _a sex life._

I will admit it, hard as it is: Mirage is _amazing. _I found a dang _silver bedspread _just so her hair would disappear into it, and she surprised me with very appealing silver negligees so that it makes it even the more befuddling when, from a certain angle, she just disappears. I can appreciate that. She isn't simply attracted to my power and money, _bless her heart, _but if she was, I really wouldn't be able to care. I'm immune to love—I don't believe in it. And when you don't believe in something, it just disappears.

Sometimes I tell her she looks too frail and she gets totally wound up about it.

"_So, you're patronizing me now?" _she asks smoothly, but I can tell when she's angry—her eyes darken, her little hands ball into fists.

Something about Mirage being angry is even hotter than her being content.

"_No one's patronizing you, sweetheart, but you know, it wouldn't hurt you…" _

"_What do you care anyway? I don't eat, and **you **don't **sleep**!"_

"_There are important plots to be hatched."_

"_My point exactly."_

"_Fine. Don't eat."_

"_I **knew **you didn't care."_

End of argument.

Because, really, who can argue with the truth?

I _don't _need her. She doesn't want to believe this, but it is a firm truth. People do _not _need people. Needs are simple: air, and something to use as a toilet. As for eating and sleeping, well, we've all ready ruled those out, haven't we?

I _don't _love her. Do I _appreciate _her? Certainly. Do I think about her? Sometimes. Do I enjoy the sex? Indefinitely. But love her?

**Nope. **

And I'm really not sorry. There's no reason I should be. I think about other things. I'm constantly inventing, creating, pondering, and being consumed by one woman would be an extremely hard task for my overactive brain.

"_What are you thinking about?" _she asks, her slender arm nudging my shoulder.

"_I couldn't even begin to explain."_

"_Syndrome, I'm **not** stupid."_

"_You don't want me to tell you."_

"_Of course I do!"_

I decided she didn't and ignored her. If you say you're in love, you're soft. If you say you don't love, you're callous. I'd rather be callous than soft. I've decided that, too.

You know, if you make a conscious decision that nothing will hurt you, _nothing_ will hurt you. Not that I'm afraid of being hurt. It's not that at all! But it's not fun to have someone **talk down to you when you're trying to be true to yourself**. And if Mirage _ever _saw me as a pathetic, stupid, **in-love **little **dweeb**, then I just don't know _what _I'd do.

Except I'm _not _in love.

I just wish she would eat something every once in awhile.


End file.
